The Strongest Force
by WritingByNight
Summary: Hawke never did give the impression that crazy was her turn-off. - A short post-game tale of love and madness.
1. Love

There are many things she wants to do to him when he put his life in her hands.

The visceral urge to hit him, shake him, to understand _why_ he felt he had to deceive her or the desperate need to bury herself in his arms and weep. Once or twice, her fingers twitch with that old, habitual desire to smooth the ruffled feathers of his coat - that ridiculous coat that makes him look like an overgrown raven, before pulling him in for a kiss.

She wants, so badly that it pains her to breathe, to find reason in the will of Justice; but as he's warned her all along there's never been Justice... just him.

Instead, she remembers what brought her to this terrible place. All that she's loved and lost - and what she has left to lose.

"Help me defend the mages," she says, wanting many things, but never wanting to lose him.

* * *

><p>She tries not to look at him as they sail to the Gallows. She wants to maintain the pretense of anger, to let him think he did wrong - even if she's starting to believe he didn't. All the fallout of his revolution lies spread before them, and his eyes never leave her, drawing her gaze like iron to a lodestone.<p>

His expression is tentative and regretful, but, oh, there is still so much love there in those soul-baring, brown eyes. And, suddenly, there's little difference between him forgetting his dirty robes on the floor of her bedroom and him leaving her out of his rebellion. She has to look away, lest he see what has to be written all over her face, and grips her staff tighter to keep from flying apart.

She could forgive him anything.

* * *

><p>There are many things she wants to say to him in the moments that might be their last.<p>

That she meant every word that night, when she left her door open to him, accepting him wholly as easily as she would shelter a stray cat from the cold. That she hates that he used their love as an excuse at keeping her blind, when his struggle would have gotten nowhere without it. Or that sometimes things are more important than love and sometimes they are one and the same.

She wants, though the words get stuck in her throat, to tell him how she worries that it won't be enough, that her magic's never been enough to save anyone she's loved.

Instead, she remembers a promise he made to her years ago, of what he would do to keep her safe. It's only fair that she keep a promise in kind.

"We'll be fugitives together," and she says the rest of it with a smile.

* * *

><p>Her hand seeks out his, briefly, as the Templars circle around them, Meredith's crystalline form at their feet. Anders offers her that sad, half-smile that has broken and mended her heart a thousand times. She squeezes it, like a drowning man clings to flotsam at sea, and grimly stares at the Knight-Captain.<p>

Years ago, a lifetime ago, a madman once told her what was the strongest force in the universe. She realizes now, under the blood-tinged sky, how right he was.


	2. Wounds

The ties between them all begin to fray before they can even leave the Gallows, and she had expected no differently. Aveline's husband, Donnic, is still in Lowtown; she could no more leave him than Hawke leave the mage beside her.

"Besides," Aveline says, stepping back from a embrace that is all too brief. "I think I can do you more good here. Get on damage control and see if I can keep them off your trail."

"You'll name one of your gloriously perfect children after me, won't you?"

"Of course," Aveline replies, seemingly all seriousness while the mischief glimmers in her eyes. "Whichever one has the smartest mouth."

Hawke grins, but inside she can feel the pin-pricks start on her heart, saying goodbye to a mother a second time.

* * *

><p>Carver, too, is left behind in the City of Chains, bound to a cause that runs deeper than mages and templars. Her brother stands tall in his Grey Warden armor on the Docks as Isabela prepares the ship; no longer the little boy with the toy sword, their father would be proud to see the man he has become.<p>

"Can't say that I agree with your choices," He nods solemnly at Anders, though not with aggression, for he owes his life to the mage Warden as much his sister. "But as it's me I imagine that's hardly a surprise."

"At least you won't have me around anymore to screw up your life."

"Nonsense," Carver smirks, but doesn't mask the familial softness in his voice. "I'll always be cleaning up after your messes and holding off your Templars. Comes with the territory."

Merrill clucks her tongue from the deck, her accent all the more pronounced when she's exasperated. "By the Creators! Can you two just shut up and hug already?"

The cuts get deeper, and now are unable to clot, watching her brother's form get smaller in the distance, torn again from reach, and forever damned by the slow death in his veins.

* * *

><p>Four days out, along the Wounded Coast, they meet their first ambush. Bounty hunters and raiders, petty thugs who'd do anything for coin.<p>

Too bad for them, there's this lovely little reaction between salt water and electricity. A well placed tempest, courtesy of Merrill, makes short work of the party, the lightening arcing off the drenched sails and finding even better conductivity in the sweat-drenched sailors. The jerking dance of their electrocution, like puppets on strings, would have be comical if it wasn't so chilling. Still, the attack did its damage.

"Soddin' _bastards_, just look at what they've done to my baby!" Isabela moans, surveying the gaping holes in the sails.

"This isn't my fault, is it?" Merrill chews her nails. "It is, I know it. Hawke, I'm so sorry, I should never have - "

"No, Kitten," Isabela interrupts, "You did right. Although, any closer and we could have joined them in the electric fandango. But we're not going to be getting anywhere fast like this."

Varric snorts. "Lovely, shall I let Choir-Boy know that we're calling a time out?"

Fenris catches Hawke's eye, the reflecting light off the water halos his stark hair, making him all the more ghost-like. He would know best; sometimes you have to stand and fight, and sometimes you have to run. "No. This is where we must separate."

Merrill looks aghast, eyes wide like moons. "What? No, they can't! You're not going to leave us... are you?" Behind her, the ex-slave is already in motion, helping the pirate queen load supplies into one of the boats. Anders swiftly heads below deck to grab what little they have.

"Daisy, it's not like they have a choice."

"But they can't, I mean, we've managed everything so far! What'll happen to them without us?"

Hawke feels almost light-headed, heart scourged raw in the salty air. "Merrill... we'll be all right," She tries to console, but the young elf bursts into tears. Hawke enfolds the sister-mage in a hug, blinking back her own tears. "You'll take care of her, won't you, Varric?"

"What makes you think I'm not going with you? Someone's got to tell the end of this story."

"I thought you said you were sick of mages and templars. As for the end, well, you already know it."

"And they lived hunted, crazy ever after?"

"Something like that, I'm sure," she chuckles weakly as Merrill pulls away, misty-eyed.

Varric sighs. "Maybe I'll look after your Estate. You know, for when you and Blondie come back." She notices that the dwarf says _when_, and, knowing that will never happen, almost weeps anew.

Anders returns, carrying a pack, and Hawke has seen that expression of his before; he's already regretting his selfish request to be with her. Feeling unbalanced, she whirls on him, her only anchor left in this storm, and silences all arguments with a heated kiss. "Until the day we die, Anders." She reminds him, and the sad smile he gives in reply helps ease the pain - a balm, but not yet a cure.

Behind them, Fenris clears his throat, and Isabela grins like the cat that's caught the canary. "Your ship... Oh, Isabela, I'm - " Hawke begins to apologize, but the Rivaini cuts her off with a laugh.

"Oh, never mind that! Can you imagine all the coin Varric and I are going to make telling the story of you and sparkle-fingers' torrid little love affair?" Beside her, Anders stiffens in mild horror. "'He pressed her against the wall of his dirty clinic, hands lost in the feel of her raven hair - '" Isabela dissolves into giggles.

"And to think," Hawke says dryly, trying to hide in humor. "I fought the Arishok for you." But, Maker, how she's going to miss this. She's going to miss all of them. Must she lose every semblance of a family? Her lungs might drown in the love that bleeds from her heart.

Can a person survive such blood loss?

* * *

><p>Anders wraps his arms around her, as they take their last sight of their friends from the far shore. Hawke closes her eyes, and leans into him, to ease the panic that tries to claw a way out.<p>

She's in the hands of her healer; if anyone can stem the bleeding, it's him.


	3. Change

They travel the old Tevinter tunnels, at Fenris's suggestion. The irony of using the symbols of former oppression as the means to freedom was not lost on either of them when he proposed the plan, but the ex-slave seemed to think it would be helpful in keeping them off the Templars' path and out of Vael's net. There was no love lost between him and Anders, but Hawke was his friend, regardless, and did not wish to see her death. Sadly, the tunnels are not as abandoned as she knew Fenris would have wanted.

The road to recovery is littered with corpses, and with each step the blood stains her heels.

The sunless days that follow ravage them both; seemingly endless encounters with slaver camps that wear bodies thin to exhaustion and push the limits of their magic. Her world begins to shrink down here, in the blood, in the darkness, in the stone walls that bear down on them, heightening the anxiety - but still she follows him, her talisman, her ball of twine, to find her way home.

Each night before they rest, with circles under his eyes that must mirror her own, he worries over her. At how volatile her shifting moods, at her obsessions and distractions, and at her almost anemic pallor. "Love, please," He says, hands pleading on her skin, magic seeking to heal hurt he cannot see. She shakes her head, unable to speak with her voice so suffocated down here, and the look on his face when she puts his hands over her heart breaks her.

She is killing him, she knows. She is killing him and killing herself, as he almost did to her in kind before the end, that terrible end, that painted Kirkwall's sky.

She is living on borrowed time, and needs her own catalyst - Something must change.

* * *

><p>The nightmares return to torture her, when she walks in the world of waking dreams. The Fade, for a mage, is a tireless example of the persistence of memory. Here, she cannot hide from her mistakes; she cannot run from herself.<p>

She spends nights paralyzed with fear, as the Ogre throws her sister - _your sweet baby sister, the whispers taunt in her father's voice_ - tossed aside like a rag-doll. She is helpless as she holds Carver, the darkspawn taint slowly stealing the smirk from his lips and the life from his eyes - _You'll take care of them, won't you, her father makes her promise._

She sprints down unending halls, heart pounding with every step as she follows that horrible trail, swearing she can hear her mother just around the next turn - _She's coming for me, she's coming, you'll see_ - and the smell of white lilies perfumes the air.

She stands before him, the ruined Chantry still smoking in the background - _But it's not him, it must be a demon, for she has never met Anders in the Fade_ - and he's helping her hold the knife to his chest. "You have to do it," the shade of Anders whispers, lovingly. "Every revolution needs a martyr."

And she wakes, sometimes screaming, sometimes sobbing, but always drenched in cold sweat, unable to be quieted until he grips her tight in his arms, shaking with the violence of existing for only him.

She is dying down here, in this darkness, bleeding a trail of blood behind him until there is nothing left that she can give.

She is killing them. Something must change.


	4. Pansies

Another night of restless dreams starts like any other, but soon shifts into something singular. She wades through a sea of bloody corpses, and recognizes the faces of everyone she's had to kill, yet she's not in her armor and does not carry her staff. Barefooted like a elf, she wears a white dress, the soft femininity of a more innocent time, though stained red in the fabric over her heart. She carries a bunch of hearts-ease, a small purple wildflower she remembers that grew rampant near their home in Lothering.

Ahead, back-turned from her, like the raven that haunts the battlefield, is Anders, but she can sense the light inside him, light that _burns_ through him, and pushes against the blackness. She knows who it really is long before he turns and can see the lyrium-blue glow that crackles his skin and blazes in his eyes.

"Justice," she murmurs, partly in wonder. She has never seen Anders in any form in the Fade since they went to save the boy, Feynriel. "What... why are you here?"

"We thought my presence alarmed you. I have kept away when you walk the Fade."

"But you're here now?"

"Yes. At his request." He regards her carefully, like seeking out weakness. "He fears that the demons are hounding you."

"And how do I know that you are not one?" She says, suddenly on the defensive. "Tell me something you would only know, so I know this isn't a trick."

Justice looks deeply uncomfortable for a moment, and then, "Your toes curl when you are in the height of your passions."

A beat. "...Oh."

"Yes."

Face flushing, and unable to resist, she asks, "Do they really?" And if a Fade spirit can look further embarrassed, then Hawke has succeeded magnificently. She decides it wise to spare him any further teasing. Merrill is right, all spirits are dangerous. There's never been any difference between justice and vengeance, other than what side of the line you're standing on.

She looks down at the flowers in her hands, and wishes she could remember what they meant. Bethany would know. She always did. "No, no demons. At least none that I've seen. Then again, they haven't tried luring me away with promises of candy and funny stories but the night is still young..." She frowns. "Why? Why would you care?"

"Anders does."

"I didn't ask about Anders. I already know how much this is killing him. Why do _you_ care?" She notes how he has avoided the question, and folds her arms across her chest to wait. "I thought you disapproved of me."

"I had expected you to martyr us, or failing that, I had expected you to leave when our vengeance unfolded. Yet you stayed, and you pledged yourself completely to our cause. You are... perplexing. I may have been... overhasty in my judgments."

"You _like_ me," she realizes, with great delight. She claps her hands to her mouth in astonishment, and suddenly she cannot keep herself from giggling. "You do! You like me."

"Do not mistake me. You are still a distraction." Justice grumbles at this admittance. "But, perhaps, a necessary one."

Hawke blinks, unprepared entirely by that. "You drive this cause to something more than freedom for all mages. Something has made it become deeply personal for him, the fuel to a fire that could otherwise burn out of control. What did you do?"

She looks down at her blood-stained feet, and hugs her arms, sadly. "He wants a world safe for mage children. Our children... If we ever have any." The life of Grey Warden complicated that matter, with only twenty or so years left, and the life of a fugitive made it nearly impossible.

"Children?"

"Yes, children." She sighs. "You know, little tiny mortals, usually the result of heavy quantities of alcohol and poor judgment?"

"I am aware of what children are," Justice snaps.

That was surprising. "You do?"

"My former host, he - his spirit had passed, but his memories remained. He had a wife. I remember this. There was this want for children." There is something almost forlorn in the way he speaks. "Anders. You would wish to have his children?"

"More than anything," She whispers, with a heartrending smile, looking Justice straight in his burning eyes. "But that can only happen when your work is done. Until then, your cause is my cause, and I will do whatever is necessary towards that end."

Justice is quiet for a long moment. "I... have done the two of you a disservice. I regret this."

Hawke watches Justice cautiously. "What's done is done, spirit. But... I do appreciate your candor."

"Do not believe the lies of demons, mortal. You have more strength in you than that. In here," Justice taps her brow, then his hand drifts lower, touching her gently where her heart bleeds into her dress. "And especially here. Do not forget them. We... may need you in the future, to keep us pure to the cause."

Hawke smiles slowly, feeling all the better from his words. She had thought that she and Justice would be ever at odds. But for him to say something kind to her, and admit that he, too, might need her...

She had always accepted Justice as a part of Anders; she never thought before that part might deserve love as well.

"Spirit?" Justice tilts his head in inquiry, and Hawke doesn't hesitate. She reaches with outstretched hand to cup his cheek, to stubble that is all too familiar, and plants a soft kiss on lips she would know anywhere. They part, briefly, in surprise, but do not rebuff her, and she smiles shyly when she pulls away. "That one is just for you."

Justice wraps his arms around her, and the air smells of crushed pansies.

* * *

><p>When they wake, curled together unconsciously like week-old kittens, she feels that something unspoken has passed between them. Anders looks at her anxiously, and Hawke wonders if Justice bothered to share what happened in the Fade. She gives him one of the first real smiles she's felt in days, and nuzzles his cheek.<p>

The air is getting lighter now, she can tell, the breathing getting easier as she catches the fresh scent of pine. Hawke can still feel the wounds on her heart, but she remembers the pansies, and remembers who's holding her hand. There's a light at the end of this tunnel. They're almost out of the darkness.


	5. Blood

The sunlight feels like a benediction as they step, wincing as their eyes adjust, out of dark caverns and into lands unknown. The smell of the forest, the sounds of the birds, the cool taste of the wind on her tongue... It is like coming to life again, and she cannot help herself; the tangibility of it all overwhelms. Hawke wants to seize Anders' hands, to dance and laugh with him in the joy of it, but her healer's face when she turns to him gives her pause.

A stone's throw from them, five templars and five men-at-arms have set up camp near the road, most in various states of at-ease, although two of the soldiers are huddled together, arguing over what looks like a map. One of their archers idly glances their direction; she recognizes the crest he wears as the symbol of Starkhaven, and elation fades to dread.

"What. _What_. Oh, you're _shitting_ me. You're shitting me!" She shrieks incredulously, to herself and the Maker, and Anders swiftly pulls her unresisting body back into the shadow of the cave-mouth, pressing her tight against the stone. Her breath hitches in panic at the stirring commotion outside. "I'm can't go back into those tunnels... I can't, Anders. Please, don't make me. I - "

"I know! I know, love," He tries to soothe her alarm, hands providing soft pressure on her hips, forehead pressed to her own. "Damn it, how did they even find us?"

"We blew up a Chantry, Anders," She points out, her sarcasm high and brittle. "It wouldn't surprise me if we were both officially on the Maker's naughty list until the end of time."

"Marian - "

A stern voice shouts to them from the clearing, causing them both to jump. "Surrender yourself and the abomination, Champion. You are surrounded, and will submit yourself to justice."

Anders closes his eyes, and exhales painfully. He sheds their pack from his back, and takes up his staff. Hawke licks her lips, nearly bursting with the mad desire to say 'Already did. Last night, in fact,' but instead goes for something more diplomatic. Or at least, diplomatic for her. "Tell that bastard Vael that there's better ways than this to deal with his pent-up repression for me," She shouts towards the cave-mouth, chuckling weakly with her own bravado. "Maybe he should try taking the matter into his own hand once and a while."

Anders quickly steals a kiss to cover everything they might need to still say. Blue-black mist already starts to twist around his fingers, and the pressure he holds on her hips becomes painful. _I love you. I love you. Don't die._

The stern voice barks his order. "Kill the abomination, but the Prince wants the Champion alive."

Hawke feels Vengeance break loose.

* * *

><p>She and Justice may have reached a tentative accord, but Vengeance - the animate, uncompromising fury that radiates from his form, his normally gentle face - she's not sure if she'll ever quite get used to him. Staff in hand, she falls into the spirit's wake when he spins from her, dropping a gravity ring on the main cluster of their enemies once she gains sight of them.<p>

"**Those who would halt the march of justice are fit only to share in the same sentence**." Vengeance passes his judgment, sending shivers up Hawke's spine, and punctuating the denouncement with a firestorm. The stench of seared flesh chokes the senses, shouts of the injured pierce the air, as the two mages fall back-to-back. Their journey through the darkness has taxed their talents severely - they must finish this quickly or they risk chance to fall.

A delicate dance ensues, their two bodies working in tandem - a destructive simulacrum of their lovemaking, ever in motion as they dodge and spin to guard from incoming attacks. Hawke takes priority at keeping their foes at bay, repelling them with mental blasts and telekinetic bursts, while her partner alternates between freezing their bones and incinerating their flesh - the very lyrium in the templars' blood seems to sing to the possessed mage, as he roasts two of them in a mess of cooked meat and molten metal from the inside-out.

Hawke is the first to stumble from their precarious perch, though by no choice of her own. Deflecting a templar's blade with her staff, she is shocked to find that when she reaches out to the Fade to strike down her attacker that it no longer responds to her call. Her foe seizes advantage to close the gap, striking her off-balance with a blow to her arm-guard that knocks her sideways and her staff from her grasp. She tries to scream, to shout warning to Anders, but her voice, too, has been stripped from her, nothing more than a whisper on the wind.

Those cursed templars have silenced her; they've cut her off from the Fade, she realizes in horror, before her mind is consumed by holy agony, and physical strength stripped from her limbs. Her knees buckle beneath her, body slamming roughly into the ground, and the templar above her grins with malicious satisfaction.

Somewhere behind her, Vengeance roars like a wounded beast, whether he has seen her fall or has been struck as well she cannot know. Hawke seethes with fury, unadulterated hate glittering in icy blue eyes. The templar chuckles and slaps her, as gently as one can with the palm of a gauntleted fist, and considering her suitably pacified, he turns his attention back to the more dangerous of the two mages.

Black spots swim in her vision as she struggles to remain conscious, and the metallic taste on her tongue bespeaks of a torn lip; she hears another injured snarl from Vengeance and the hysteria that's been lurking beneath the surface begins to consume her. She's got nothing left, no magic left at her call - _you knew it would never be enough, that it's never been enough_ -** No**. She mouths forcefully in denial, to herself and to shut out the demons, crawling on hands and knees until she can see the battle.

Anders glows white-hot with the full possession of Vengeance, a creature of the Fade barely masked in mortal flesh, burning so bright that it is nearly painful to look at him. An arrow is stuck fast in his left shoulder, and his coat is soaked with blood on his right side, but he throws out another fireball that cremates four of the Starkhaven militia, heedless of his injuries. This will kill him, she thinks fearfully. He cannot heal himself in this state, and though they might win this, his injuries will be too grave to survive.

And she is powerless. She'll watch him die, as she watched her mother and sister die. She'll fail him, as she failed her father and brother. She'll have nothing left, all that remains of her life will be in ruins, and when the Prince of Starkhaven catches up to her she'll no doubt wish for the blessing of death.

Vengeance's gaze falls to her briefly, the blue glow in his eyes flaring, and she must be going mad now for, against all reason, she smells pansies. _Pansies_. The epiphany hits her, in Bethany's sweet voice. _That's for love and thoughts_. Hawke's lips part with sudden understanding of what Justice meant, of the strength she has at her command, and exactly what agreement they reached in the Fade.

After all, why should he be the only one to drown them both in blood?

With shaking hands she reaches for the small dagger she keeps at her hip, the blade that once felled a madman, and without pausing to think, slits open her hand.

And it's the easiest thing in the world to press her bloody hand to her chest, over her wounded heart, and call on that reservoir of power she's had all this time, that force she's been bleeding behind him since Kirkwall. Crimson energy swirls around her fingertips, and there's no time for half measures, no time for turning back. She throws out her hand, extending that life energy out in a hemorrhage - let them drown, she thinks, in all the love that she could feel.

Two of the templars are caught in its grip, and fall to their knees, clutching at their chests. Their skin twitches uncontrollably, as if hundreds of insects crawl just beneath the surface, the corrupted blood blistering their organs, but Hawke doesn't pause to see their death-rattles. She staggers to her feet and clenches her torn palm, demanding more, much more of herself. Her eyes begin to glow red as the insidious magic sinks into the mind of the archer that dared to wound her healer.

"You cannot have him." She commands, the blood twisting his thoughts, to recruit him to their cause. Instantly, he drops his bow and draws his short-sword, swinging forward to intercept the templar leader's blow, one intended for Anders. With a cry of surprise, the templar turns on him, cutting down their convert in a gory explosion, splattering the three of them all in shower of dark blood. The templar bares his teeth, shouting something about maleficarum and blood magic, and Hawke sneers. Don't these fools know anything?

Her hand throbs as she forces her nails into the wound, almost delighting in the delicious pain, and it doesn't matter that she can't call on the Fade; she doesn't need it, not with her will and her heart's blood to give her power. Hawke smirks with satisfaction, slamming down a Fist of the Maker on the offending fool, and when the dust settles there is nothing left - no one left to oppose them. Vengeance stands, swaying slowly on spot from his wounds, staff still held at ready for further attack. She stumbles on weakened legs over to him, extending her hand out to him cautiously, and Vengeance spins on her reflexively.

"They're all dead. All of them." She says. "It's over. You have to let go of him."

"**It will never be over! Not 'til all that would oppose us can feel Justice's burn!**"

"If you don't let him go, our cause will die in its infancy," she pleads. "You need to let him heal. Spirit, please - " And risking everything, she reaches out to touch Vengeance's chest. For a brief moment she thinks that he will strike her down, and if he does, so be it - she would not want to live without him anyway. But Vengeance crackles in white-hot energy, and suddenly Anders slumps forward, heavy in her arms.

Rushed with urgency, she helps him to the ground, supporting his upper-body in the curve of her arms. His eyes are already hazy with pain, breathing labored. "Stay with me, love... Damn it, Anders, you have to stay awake." She begs, cursing herself, not for the first time, for her lack of talent in healing. Her wounded hand caresses his cheek whilst the other fumbles in the pouch at his belt for the last of their elfroot potions, and as his hand on her arm begins to go slack, she seizes one at last. Ripping the cork out with her teeth, she holds the vial up to his lips.

"Please drink... Please, love." His eyes start to lid close as she helps him drink, the first part of the potion trickling out his mouth, but she takes her other hand to stroke his neck gently, easing the liquid down his throat. Slowly, the potion hits his system and some life stirs back in the mage. His hand reaches up to cup hers, and he coughs harshly.

"Drink, please, drink... yes, yes, oh, thank the Maker." She sobs with profound relief, tossing the empty vial aside, and offering a fresh one. The wound at his side begins to mend, and halfway through the second vial, his eyes struggle open.

"Marian, what - " He pauses through shaky breaths. "What did you do?"

"Whatever was necessary. Keep drinking."

His hand reaches for her torn one, the damning proof of her desperation. His eyes bleakly search hers. "Tell me you didn't. Not for me."

She frowns resolutely. Would he hate her for this? Does it even matter if he does? He's here, warm and breathing and alive. She'd drain all the blood in her veins if it meant keeping him safe. "You can yell at me later. When you don't have an arrow stuck in your shoulder." She answers softly.

But Anders closes his eyes, and hangs his head, looking for all the world like he's tainted the last pure thing in his life.

* * *

><p>They have to keep moving, of course. It's bad enough that Vael has sent out patrols this far; that he remembered to search the Tevinter tunnels. Even if Hawke felt strong enough to return into the depths, into the darkness, it is a place of safety no longer. Practicality governs her.<p>

She coaxes Anders to finish the second vial, and, with his strength flooding back to him, moves to inspect the arrow. "It doesn't look bad. Didn't sink in too deep. I think I can pull it cleanly. Will you have enough energy to heal it?"

"I'll manage." Anders grimaces as her fingers hit a sensitive spot, voice subdued.

Hawke applies pressure hard against the flat plane of his chest; Anders grits his teeth with a hiss but the arrow comes free - quick and clean, and she tosses it aside. The soft glow of healing magic finishes the treatment, and Anders moves to stand. She shakes her head, pushing him gently back down. "Rest. I'll take care of it."

Hawke stands, surveying the bloody abattoir that the two of them wrought. What to do with them, she wonders. They have every reason to simply leave the bodies to the wolves, these brutes who hunted them, but the action smacked of malice and was, frankly, stupid. They couldn't afford to leave a trail, not weakened as they were, but nor did they have the time and energy to put the bodies to torch, to burn them down to nothing. She sighs with frustration; first things first.

Deftly, she collects anything of value: rations, coin, increasingly rare potions. Everything that they can recover might mean the difference between victory or defeat - life and death. Looting the body of the last soldier, she frowns at the Starkhaven crest. Hindsight pains her; if she had known how much trouble that arrogant Princeling would cause them she would have made sure he was left in the Chantry when Anders blew it apart.

_Oh._ The inspiration strikes her suddenly, reminded of the other renegade mages that have come before them. Grace, de-facto leader of the Starkhaven Circle, may have been a ungrateful, treacherous bitch, but her dying actions have now provided the solution to their predicament.

Hawke recovers her staff, and stands in the middle of the mess, closing her eyes to try and remember exactly how Grace had done it. Already she can sense the life-blood, flickering dimly like dying embers, and wasted entirely on the dead. It's so easy to bid all of it to simply return, to consume the residual life force from those nearby corpses and strengthen her anew.

She gasps as it all rushes back in wave, eyes snapping back open, and views the results. The cut she made on her hand has mended, and bears no scar; she reaches to touch her face, to bruises and abrasions that should be left where the templar stuck her, but everything feels healed. Even her skin has new vigor in it, looking healthier than it has in days. The corpses have, in turn, shriveled and shrunken, skin pulled tight against bone when the magic desiccated all life-energy. Hawke smiles; that should confound their pursuers, to find skeletons instead of corpses, and the suggestion that whoever had done the crime was long gone.

She turns to Anders, to help him rise, but her healer is already standing, pack and staff in hand. He offers no words, but the sad accusation in his eyes makes her bristle.

Yes, you did this, she wants to shout. You drove me to this. But she knows that's not true, so she swallows her anger, and raises her chin. She offers out her hand to him, tentative and regretful. _Please. I need you._

He takes her hand, and follows her into the wilderness.


	6. Endings

Evening finds them in the hayloft of a peasant's barn, the owners mercifully away. Normally, such a blessing would be something to bask in, but Anders' cool cordiality since the incident at the cave-mouth has left Hawke unbearably tense.

"Are you ever going to talk to me?" She confronts him at last, having pulled off the last of her armor. The soft chemise and long trousers makes her feel all the more vulnerable before him. "Something, anything. Please."

Anders stares at his hands. "...You'll need to start eating better. Red meat, dried fruits, dark greens." He chuckles bitterly. "I know, we'll just politely ask the next templar if he's got any of that to spare."

"I - what?"

"To keep your blood healthy. I'm assuming that there's going to be repeat performances? Vael's not the type to give up easily. But you cut yourself one too many times, without proper care, and you'll fall ill."

Hawke hugs her arms, bewildered by this admission. "You're... not upset?" He shoots a sidelong glance that makes her wince. "Ah. Quite upset then."

"Maker knows I've no right to condemn someone on extremes at this point..."

"No, you don't."

Anders stands suddenly to face her, seizing her hands in his, as if this could help her understand. "Marian, this is blood magic! You've seen first hand, from dozens of mages in Kirkwall, what comes of such desperation. Mages who thought they, too, could control it." He whispers, "This is the magic that created that perversion of your mother."

"No. _He_ did that." Hawke says coldly. If anything, the memory of Quentin will forever keep her vigilant. "Would you blame a sword for murder or the man who wields it?"

"Then what do you want me to say?" He sighs wearily, dropping her hands.

"I - You would have died, Anders!" Maker, sometimes she wants to knock his gorgeous head against the wall. "I wasn't about to lose you. I can't!"

"But at what cost, love? Don't tell me that I'm worth the risk of losing you to a demon."

"Is that what this is all about?" She asks, not sure if she wants to laugh or cry, as her panic melts away. "I didn't consort with a demon. Champion's honor."

"So, what, you just couldn't resist all that tempting power, and decided to start slashing your wrists because all the other mages were doing it?"

"No. I didn't understand it at all, actually." She admits, sinking her fingers into his coat feathers. Most of them are coagulated in blood, but some are still as fluffy as ever. "Justice had to remind me what power I always had at my command and it took you nearly dying for me to even dare attempt it."

"Justice?" He echoes, doubtful, but from his careful tone she can tell his anger is fading. "Justice... is no demon."

"No, he's not. But he's still a spirit, and I think I accepted an offer with him all the same." Hawke watches Anders' face, at the mixed relief and growing uncertainty. Her fingers gently smooth his chest; trace the curve of his neck. "He didn't share this with you?"

"No. He didn't." He shakes his head, bemused. "He only said that he had re-evaluated his opinion of you. He didn't elaborate why."

"Oh." Hawke ponders this, and blushes. "That might be because I kissed him."

There's a mild choking sound. "You - what?"

She makes a little moue, shrugging one shoulder, and smiles in a way that she hopes is charming. "Well, he is you, isn't he? 'Justice and I are one.' That's what you always keep telling me, right?"

"Well, yes, but -" Anders trails off, slightly irritated - at Justice or himself or both she cannot tell, and Hawke giggles helplessly.

"Don't tell me you're jealous..." She teases.

"I am not." He denies hotly, though unable to stifle his answering grin.

"You are. You're jealous of your little passenger - " But Hawke's wit dies in her throat as Anders reminds her exactly why it's a bad idea to tease a mage.

Possessive and possessing barely bridled passion, his kisses are deliverance. He, too, could forgiven her anything, it seems. When his claim on her comes to a standstill, his breath is hot in her ear, voice slow, as if growing accustomed to the idea. "So, you essentially consorted with... me."

"Yes. Hardly anything out of the ordinary." She manages breathlessly, and Anders laughs - such a rare and delightful thing.

"And what else did Justice promise you?" He asks, starting to place a deliberate trail of torturous kisses from beneath her ear along her jaw.

Hawke's eyes begin to lid with pleasure, leaning into him. "Children." He pauses momentarily in his path, waiting for clarification in quiet inquiry.

"No matter what happens or what I do, I'll lose you eventually to your Calling. I have no illusions about that." She gives him a half-smile, and threads her fingers through his hair. "But to change the world with you, so that one day our children can live free - I'd pay that price. Whatever the cost. Justice... understands that, I think."

"Well, you can be an incredibly persuasive woman, Mistress Hawke." He replies, hands sliding beneath the hem of her chemise to tease at her bindings.

Hawke groans, lanced with keen desire. It churns her insides, heat pounding in her blood, and she is impatient, suddenly so impatient. "Do you know how cathartic it is that Justice doesn't think me an enemy anymore?" She breathes hurriedly against his lips. "That you're _mine_, Anders. Justice and all."

"Marian - "

"I'm not finished." She warns hungrily, hands drifting to his belt. "So I don't care how much of Vael's army I have to kill to keep you safe, or if we have to blow up every Chantry from here to the blasted Divine to see our cause realized - "

"Marian." He persists.

"What?" She sighs, exasperated.

Anders stops her fumbling hands, grinning. "This belt's undone the other way," he says, promptly eliminating the obstacle for her, and shrugging off his heavy coat.

Oh." She breathes out, and peevishly, crinkles her nose. "That's ridiculous. Your clothing is ridiculous. It makes no bloody sense. Have I mentioned that your clothing is ridiculous?"

"I can recall a occasion or two." He smirks, and the hands that slip between her thighs are still the hands of a healer, no matter how much bloodshed they have caused, with heady kisses that cauterize the wounds on her heart.

A crackle of magic so near her core shocks the senses, every nerve electrified in desire. "Devious man," she pants, playfully pushing his chest. Unexpectedly, Anders hisses, and she understands her mistake in an instant.

"Shit, shit. Anders, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot." Her fingers reach to tenderly soothe scarcely healed bruises and scars. "Still painful?"

"I did get stabbed. And shot, in fact. Very traumatizing." He says, blithely. "Honestly, I'm not sure if I'll ever recover."

She exhales weakly, and impulsively, presses a kiss to the jagged scar the arrow left on his shoulder. Anders gives her a delicious shudder in response. "Any better?"

"Keep going, and I'll let you know." He says, sinking his fingers into her raven hair.

Hawke grins against his chest, and continues upward, rewarded with increasingly vocal groans for her troubles, at each loving kiss and each mischievous bite. The smell of him envelops her, a deep current of comfort in a ocean of uncertain. When she's finished, she removes the tie from his hair, toying with the blond strands.

"Well?"

"Much better." He tugs insistently at her chemise, lifting up and over her head, and completely insatiable, makes short work of her bindings as well. The cool air on her bare chest makes her shiver, at least until his marvelous hands rise to cup her breasts and stroke warmth into her flesh. "What am I to do with you?"

"Steer me towards that pile of hay... and I've a few ideas..."

"No. About the blood magic," He says, though it seems her suggestion had merit. Anders eases her backwards, guiding her down to rest in the cushy hay, and settling his weight above her. He lavishes kisses in the delicate hollow of her throat, relishing in every spike of her pulse, every barely contained whimper. "My own little maleficar. Am I to keep you in line, then?"

"Yes, oh, please do." She breathes, his hands gliding in teasing patterns, over chest, down stomach, towards the tense curve of her hip. Miraculous, miraculous hands that can bring her back to life with the simplest touch.

"I'm sure Justice would agree." He murmurs, coaxing her to lift her hips as he strips away the last of her clothes. "He'd hate to learn if you ever used your new magic inappropriately."

"So don't tell him." She begs, arching toward him, desperate for closeness, anything to have those hands on her again. "Just punish me if I misstep."

"Do you mean that, love?"

Hawke meets his gaze, trembling in want. There's the slightest hint of blue that rings the irises in his amber eyes, and that knowledge only exhilarates her further. "Yes."

And it may be falling or it may be flying, but either way she's too far gone to care as Anders slides two of those Maker-blessed fingers into her slick heat.

The transformation is remarkable. The indomitable woman who faced the Arishok in single-combat, and stood against men and monsters, whose icy resolve and smart mouth helped her survive darkspawn, templars and Kirkwall intrigue time and again... all of that melts - dissolved like sea-foam from the distinctive and exceptional magic that he alone can cast on her.

With a roguish smirk, teeth and tongue, that clever, charming tongue, descend to join those hands that devourer her, and it is a very good thing, indeed, that barn's owners are away. The litany of her gasps and cries slice the silent air, one shaky hand finding his, briefly, at her hip, kneading a harmony on her skin to match the rhythm he works inside her. And it is not long, not long at all, until she is writhing with the force of her release, utterly undone, his name an exalt on her lips.

Sinking from her high, her head falls back into the hay, skin flushed, and Anders reverently kisses his way back up the inside of her thigh, full of love and admiration for her - for this wonderful madwoman who would forsake the world, but would not forsake him.

Hawke's trembling hand is pressed lightly to her mouth, drinking in deep breaths, and unpredictably, shifts into hiccuping laughter. She wets her lips, and smiles at him, soft and fragile, and answers his questioning grin. "They do curl," she says, shaking with mirth. "My toes, that is. At the height."

Anders chuckles in turn, and starts dealing with the last of his clothes. "Your legs also clamp hard against the sides of my head."

"Oh..." She winces slightly. That must hurt. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He says fervently, with a suggestive smirk. "It's downright enthralling."

Hawke's reply evaporates as Anders rests above her again, his hands pressing along her hairline and temples, around the shells of her ears. She offers him kisses that are, at once, less urgent and more forceful than before. The whole world may be against them, but she no longer fucking cares.

And it occurs to her, idly, between kisses that breathe life back into them both, that they have become each other's link to the world - to sanity even, and certainly the only thing keeping the other in check. That their love, this unfathomable, magical force, might be the only thing keeping them alive. But all this deep philosophical musing gets swept aside as Anders grips her hips, biting down at that sensitive spot on her neck, and sinks inside her at last.

She snakes an arm around his back, eyes catching his, so dark with desire, and nods in unspoken permission. There will be time for tenderness later; she needs his possession. Anders is more than happy to oblige, pressing her other hand down beside her head, and cupping her ass as he begins to set a merciless pace.

Hawke throws her head back, whimpering, reveling in the sensation, the amalgamation of pleasure and pain, and Anders growls something hotly near her ear. Consumed with wanton need, she rocks her hips, trying to match speed to his savage thrusts. "Harder," She begs, raking his back with her nails, needling the flesh with half-moon crescents. "Hard - ungh - _Fuck_, yes, that's good..."

Anders bends his head to sample her breast, that wonderfully wicked mouth flicking and nipping at the bud, her moans too much a drug for him to not do everything he could to illicit them. She fists her freed hand through his hair, still matted with dried blood from before, dragging his head back up for a brutal kiss.

And she knows, as she arcs against him while he speeds his movements towards the finale, desperation honing his thrusts, their weathered breathing ragged in her ears - she knows that, in him she has become irrevocably lost. But for this... his call, his love, and the knowledge that he needs her as much as she needs him...

Perhaps, in him, she'll be ultimately saved as well.

She clings to him as she feels all control, all sense start to shatter, in a rush of heat, and she cannot help herself, she must be near to screaming now. The feeling of her tightening around him, ecstasy awash on her face, fractures him as well, Anders driving into her for the last time, a hoarse cry muffled in her shoulder, dazed by the power of their coalescence.

For a little while, there is only the waning thrum of the blood in their veins, breathlessly tangled together in the tender afterglow, and it feels like the violence and pain of the past weeks could never have existed. They could easily be back in their bed in Hightown, their clothes and his manifesto haphazardly strewn across the floor. But the hay starts to itch her neck and tickle her sides, and the real world slowly filters back.

Anders raises his head from her neck, with a smile that is open and uncomplicated - it is like peering through the Veil to view a life left behind, before he became consumed with Justice. He offers a languid kiss, and gently eases out to lie beside her. Hawke settles herself in his embrace, perfectly contented. They've both seen the worst of each other, and neither of them would turn to run. That's enough, she decides. More than most people have, certainly. Enough to restart a life, no matter how unorthodox it may be.

A wise man once told her what was the strongest force in the universe. Perhaps that's all she ever needed, too.

"The abomination and the maleficar," She murmurs with light humor. "We'll be quite the double-act. Have all the templars lined up just to come see."

"Well, love, can you honestly blame them when we're both so _very_ pretty?" Anders kisses her shoulder, wondering, not for the first time, at how he came to find such a partner, for his cause and his life - Andraste was never so lucky. "Speaking of absolutely bewitching maleficars - when can I expect the naked dancing?"

Hawke raises an eyebrow. "For?"

"For you to fit in," He says, with great solemnity. "I'm positive it's a requirement. They'll make fun of you otherwise."

She chuckles, and looks at him mischievously. "Well, I have to leave _something_ for you if we ever make it to Tevinter..."

* * *

><p><em>"...Well, all except Anders, of course."<em>

"You believe that they're still alive - both of them?"

"Oh, of that I'm positive. Heard of any grief-stricken rampages lately? No, they're both out there. Both crazy, in their own way, and completely crazy for each other. And I'll tell you this - you'd best hope you never find them. 'Cause there's only one force on this earth that'll tear them apart and some days, I don't think even the darkspawn taint will manage that."

"So that would be your ending for them, dwarf?" Cassandra said archly, though not without admiration for the couple who had rocked the foundations of the world. "And they lived, happily ever after?"

Varric smiled in the shadows of the Hawke Estate. "Something like that, I'm sure."


End file.
